


Don't Let Me Drown//Drown Me Out

by KatyaZel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: #letsiriussleep, (she said to herself), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Grimmauld Place, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insomnia, M/M, Machiavellian Dumbledore, Nightmares, With some fluff at the end, but very angsty before that, rooftop chats, very fluffy at the end actually, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-18 22:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16128134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyaZel/pseuds/KatyaZel
Summary: "Luck and Regulus kept me alive in that house, without any cooperation from me. So tell me, how am I supposed to survive there now?"Remus takes Sirius to Grimmauld Place. Neither man wants to be there, but if they have to wake up old ghosts, at least they're together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea, almost fully formed, and was halfway through writing before I realized it was definitely not canon compliant, timeline-wise. I have this set during Goblet of Fire, roughly after Sirius meets Harry in Hogsmeade but before the next letter he sends. Rather than waiting, Dumbledore wants to go ahead and lay some groundwork for the order and determines Grimmauld Place as HQ. Here, he sends Remus to deliver the news.  
> This is my first fic, ever! I'm very excited to share.

Remus rakes his hand through his hair and wonders how to get out of this. But he was born of tact and giving, and so he knows this is his obligation. He checks his watch again; there’s no reason to expect Sirius to be on time, but there’s something satisfying about knowing the number of minutes that pass as he waits for his friend.

He looks around the shack for the fifteenth time, but this time permits himself a sliver of memory. He’s good at not remembering, but it doesn’t mean he forgets.  _ The only one left. _ For thirteen years, that had been Remus’s accepted reality. It had never stopped hurting, but he had stopped prodding it. Being in the shack again is a reminder of everything he had diligently worked to box up neatly in his head. Dozens of moonlit nights here. A few that stood out most.

_ That night _ , he thinks, which is as close as he normally allows himself to it in his head.  _ That night _ , less than a year ago, when so much guilt and relief and fear and lightness had flooded him at once. It was Sirius. Not Sirius Black, convicted murderer, but Sirius. Padfoot. And then, like an idiot, Remus screwed everything up. He knows, maybe, that it wasn’t his fault. He tries to believe it. But everything that had been promised that night--Sirius’s freedom, Peter’s capture, Harry’s escape from the Dursleys, his own career--had been ruined because of the wolf.

On that night, seeing Sirius, Remus had been unable to maintain his usual reserve. Sirius had noticed, had mentioned in a letter or two how evident it had been that Remus had felt it too. By writing, miles between them, Remus had been able for the most part to hide what he felt. He was terrified that tonight, he would see Sirius and do something rash and idiotic. He was afraid Sirius would see right through the facade of amiable, casual friendship. 

Nothing between them, the good or the bad, had ever been casual. That scared Remus the most--he hadn’t felt anything, in fourteen years, that compared with the joy and the agony of being with, around, about Sirius Black. When they fought, they  _ fought.  _ Remus was seldom truly angry, but almost every time he had known fury, it had been because of Sirius. The other  _ that night,  _ for one, waking up in the hospital wing and realizing he had nearly killed; realizing it had been Sirius who would have used the wolf as a weapon. For a  _ prank.  _

After they had left Hogwarts, Remus discussed it one night with James over a bottle of fire whiskey. James had been sympathetic, but he didn’t hold the animal memory of that night like Remus did. “It was terrible, Moony. It really, really was. But--imagine living inside that head of his. You know better than anyone, he’s just not--there, all the time.”

It had always been true, and seemed to hold true now, in the letters Remus had received. One was pages and pages about Regulus, guilty, angry, devastating pages. One was sufficiently flirtatious to make Remus blush just like he was in sixth year again. Some seemed to lose all sense of time, referring to events of years long past as though they had just occurred. All together, they painted a picture that makes sense to Remus: a man who, never very stable, had spent twelve years in Azkaban and was now half-starved and on the run.

Well, at least the last would change, but not, Remus suspects, for the better. He checks his watch again just as he hears something make its way through the tunnel. He can’t help smiling, really, seeing that big black dog. It’s a reflex that twelve years of disuse have done nothing to eliminate. 

“Hello, Sirius,” he says as his friend transforms. He looks terrible, Remus notes, filing away a reminder to himself ( _ feed Sirius something real, make sure he sleeps more than two hours _ ) before accepting the other man’s hug. Terrible and wonderful and beautiful.

“Moony!” Sirius’s grin is almost manic. “In the flesh. Last time I saw you you were running away from me into the woods. Just like sixth year, huh?”

Remus tries to maintain his evenness, but he snorts despite himself. “Merlin, we can’t dredge up those memories.” He takes a step back and looks Sirius up and down. “It’s good to finally see you,” he adds in a quieter tone.

Sirius laughs and throws himself down on the bed, stretching out and closing his eyes. Remus sits next to his feet and lets himself stare. “So, Remus,” Sirius begins, “What couldn’t be said by owl?”

It won’t make it any easier to stall, but Remus does. “Where’s your decorum? If you won’t ask me how I am, I’ll at least ask you. What does convicted killer Sirius Black do on holiday?”

Sirius smiles wryly. “Try to eat, try not to dream. Same as ever.” He hums faintly, eyes still closed. “Perhaps I  _ was  _ on holiday. Very warm. Can’t you tell from my glowing skin?” Remus rolls his eyes. “Mostly I was around the Mediterranean. Mostly I was a dog, which helped with both the eating and the not dreaming. And then when Harry was entered in the bloody Tournament I came back to England, and then back to Hogsmeade. Again, mostly a dog. And what about you? How does a known werewolf spend his days?”

Remus considers. “Same as ever for me, too. Muggle jobs were always easiest to come by, and thanks to our friend Severus I don’t really have other options, now. It’s not so bad, really. Brighton is a fine city. Though…” he pauses. Well, here goes nothing. “Though I’m moving to London.”

“Change of scenery?”

Remus glances down at his friend, still sprawled on the bed, eyes still closed. He looks almost peaceful, and Sirius never looks peaceful, not even asleep. “Dumbledore’s orders, actually. He’s getting the Order back together, just as a sort of network for now.”

Sirius’s eyes snap open and he props himself up on an elbow. “ _ Is _ he? About time, I’d say. After that stunt at the world cup? Lord knows we could use some ears to the ground. I wonder why he didn’t write that to me...” Sirius grins impishly up at Remus. “Does your new flat allow dogs?”

Remus lifts the corners of his mouth briefly, but doesn’t look at Sirius. “Well, that’s more or less why I’m here. Dumbledore…”  _ Damn  _ Dumbledore. It’s easy to keep a twinkle in your eyes when you let others deliver all the devastating news. “He wants headquarters to be Grimmauld Place.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then, predictably, laughter. Remus was once well versed in Sirius’s different laughs--which ones were dangerous, which ones called for concern. He adds this knowledge to things that can’t be remembered without use. 

“Tell Dumbledore he can have it,” Sirius finally says. “God knows I have no need for the place. No, tell him to go right ahead. March in. Desecrate the Noble and Ancient house.”

Remus nods slowly, bites the inside of his cheek. “Well, that’s the thing. He doesn’t think we can, not without...someone tied to the house.” He turns his eyes to Sirius, whose face has gone dark. “So he asked me to come and-- _ request _ that you return home. And request that you open it up to the Order.” Sirius doesn’t respond. “He also thinks you would be safe there. Not running. That you could help plan, and serve the Order.”

Sirius stands abruptly. “That’s bullshit. He doesn’t think I can  _ help _ . He just needs my blood.” He whirls to face Remus. “And Dumbledore couldn’t find any other place in Britain for a headquarters?  _ Really _ ? Come on, Remus.” Remus shrugs, maintaining calm eye contact with Sirius. How can he answer that? What did Dumbledore tell him, other than  _ Here’s what I need from you and here’s when I need it _ . The reasoning was secondary. 

“I don’t know, Padfoot,” Remus says. “He also said, of course, you can refuse. This is your choice to make.” Remus feels guilty again, as though he’s letting both Dumbledore and Sirius down. A voice in his head--Lily’s?--tells him sternly that he’s being ridiculous, none of this is his fault, and he tries to believe it as he watches Sirius’s face flash through anger and confusion and trepidation.

“Have you ever actually felt that you have a choice when Dumbledore tells you you do?” Sirius asks, rolling his eyes now. He’s pacing a little. “But Merlin. Grimmauld Place? What’s he trying to do to me?” Remus remains silent, willing his friend to be okay. “I mean, what is it like for you to be back in here, Remus? Or, if someone made you go back to your parents’ cellar. Or the forest, even. You understand?”

“Of course I do. You know I wouldn’t ask you this,” he replies, trying to keep his voice calm. “But that’s why Dumbledore sent me, because--”

“Because he’s a coward,” Sirius interrupts. 

Remus raises his eyebrows. “No comment. Because you shouldn’t face it alone. I’m coming with you.”

Sirius nods, sits back down slowly next to Remus. “And when does Dumbledore plan for us to make this great move?”

One more time, Remus glances at his watch. “Tonight, if you say yes.”

Sirius meets and holds Remus’s eyes for a long moment. Remus marks this as something to consciously remember-- _ Sirius’s eyes still look like they did-- _ before his friend finally speaks. “What do you remember? About that summer.”

Remus breathes deeply.  _ That summer _ , like the several  _ that night _ s that he keeps in corners, has been mostly untouched for years. “I’m not exactly sure, anymore,” he says slowly. “I’m not sure which bits you told me, and which I inferred or invented.”

“You’re evading, Remus.”

A wry grin. “Alright. Let’s see… James--well, he said you were in quite poor shape when you showed up. He didn’t elaborate too much, but I could tell how angry he was. I imagined you were hurt. I imagined it had happened at the hands of someone in Grimmauld Place. I imagined you were going to die, actually. And whenever you talked about it, later...that image didn’t change in my head.”

Sirius is quieter. “I could have, you know. Died. A hundred times. Luck and Regulus kept me alive in that house, without any cooperation from me. And Regulus and James got me out of that house. And now,” his voice twists, but whether from anger or sorrow Remus finds it hard to say, “I don’t have any of those things. I haven’t had luck since I was a teenager, and Regulus and James didn’t last much longer than that. So tell me, Moony,” his eyes are demanding something Remus isn’t sure he has. “Tell me how I’m supposed to survive there now?”

Remus doesn’t make an answer. How can he? And what is his responsibility here? To push for a piece of Dumbledore’s far-reaching agenda, or to take his best friend somewhere, anywhere, far away from past traumas?

Sirius makes a sound of frustration as his friend sits in silence. “Can I talk to Dumbledore myself? I don’t see why in the blazing hell Grimmauld Place is the one adequate spot in England, but if he convinces me… If he convinces me, and you come with me, I can do it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Though it takes some doing, Remus gets the meeting Sirius wants. He exchanges a few Patronuses with Dumbledore and eventually everything is arranged for a large black dog to trot its way into the Headmaster’s office. 

And when Sirius returns, an hour or so later, he is convinced. He evades Remus’s questions about the meeting, mentioning only his father’s intensive security measures and the spacious layout, and despite being sure there was something more, Remus doesn’t push the matter.

“Ready?” he asks, and Sirius shrugs irritably, but disapparates. With a crack, Remus follows and the two are on Grimmauld Place, facing numbers 11 and 13

With a last attempt at levity, Sirius glances at Remus. “Never thought I’d finally get you back to my place, did you?” Remus indulges him with a grin and shakes his head fondly.

“Come on, we’d best hurry inside. So no one sees you.”

No one, Remus supposes, has lived here since Walburga died. He worries they’ll have trouble getting in, but Sirius just pulls out his wand and mutters something and suddenly number 12 is before them, the door unlocking itself at Sirius’s touch.

They enter slowly, and Remus whispers “ _ Lumos _ ” as they creep into the front room. In the dim light, of course, it looks as eerie as Remus would expect the House of Black to look. He glances at Sirius and wishes he could see his friend more clearly. The other man is holding his wand, and it seems to be shaking. 

“Sirius?” Remus isn’t sure what question he’s asking. Maybe  _ are you still here _ . Or  _ who do you see right now _ . 

“Let’s go to the kitchen,” Sirius breathes, and now Remus is sure he must be shaking, after hearing the tremble in his voice. But he seems to have direction, now, and so Remus follows him as they walk a little more quickly to the back of the house.

In the kitchen, Sirius lights the room and shuts the door, closing out the rest of the house, and the place feels almost cozy suddenly. Sirius sits heavily and his eyes dart around the room. Remus wonders what he’s seeing and finds himself infuriated once again at Sirius’s parents.

After months of letters, Remus finds himself at a loss when face to face, real-time conversation is demanded of him. “Well,” he finally says, as breezily as he can, “Would you like some tea?”

Sirius lurches back to the present, stares at Remus, and bursts out laughing. “You really haven’t changed, have you?”

Remus stands and looks for a kettle. “That’s hardly fair. Just because my penchant for hot tea and the illusion of usefulness in tense situations hasn’t changed doesn’t mean that nothing has.”

As long as they’re talking about him and his life, Remus thinks, perhaps Sirius will let himself be distracted. So when Sirius asks, “What has changed, then?” Remus decides to answer him, truthfully.

“Well, let’s see…I’m more centered, I’d say. I’m better at accepting my own emotions, and not trying to change them. I can speak them, now. Less skilled at accepting other people’s emotions, at least the negative ones, but I am better at it. And working. Frankly, I’ve just done a load of therapy.”

“What, that muggle bullshit?” As Sirius scoffs derisively, Remus finally locates a kettle in a top shelf. As he quickly spells away the dust and cobwebs, he shakes his head at Sirius.

“It’s quite helpful, actually. Life doesn’t have to be impossible, or unbearably hard, all the time. And mine’s not, in spite of everything that indicates it should be.”

Sirius shrugs. “If it helps you sleep, I guess.” He pauses. “Are you? Sleeping?” They had long been partners in insomnia, back at school. While James was always out as soon as he was horizontal, and Peter would mumble and thrash about restlessly in half-sleep, the other two lay awake. 

“I am,” Remus replies evenly as the water starts heating up. “I didn’t think to bring any actual tea,” he mutters, and Sirius laughs a little. He points out a jar full of black tea leaves, strangely--worrisomely?--fresh.

Remus’s insomnia had always been sporadic; for two or three weeks he would walk around exhausted but unable to sleep, and then a month, sometimes two or three, would pass in which he seemed to be cured. But, inevitably, it returned. Why, he wonders, have so many things in his life always been inevitabilities?

Sirius, from what Remus could tell, had lived in a constant state of sleep deprivation. He couldn’t believe it to be a coincidence that their insomniatic spells always lined up, and so he assumed Sirius was just always nocturnal. And that, at least, doesn’t look like it’s changed.

“What about you, Padfoot?” he asks, his voice almost drowned out by the start of the kettle’s whistle. “Do you ever sleep?”

Sirius, who had gone quiet while Remus prepared the tea, jolts. “Sorry?”

Remus pauses, but repeats his question. Better that than  _ what are you reliving _ .

“Oh, god no. Not if I can help it.” Remus sets down a mug in front of Sirius pointedly, and the other man rolls his eyes. “Don’t get all domestic on me. If you let yourself worry about my sleep habits you’ll drive yourself mad.” Remus’s eyes don’t relent, and Sirius shrugs helplessly. “Alright, I can get a few hours as the dog. He doesn’t dream as much. I don’t think I’ve slept without transforming since...well, definitely not since I got out of Azkaban.”

Remus takes a sip of his tea. “Do you think that’s healthy?”

Sirius shoots him an incredulous look. “No. Do you remember who you’re talking to?” He shakes his head. “Remus… this god-forsaken house. I can’t--” he breaks off helplessly. 

Remus nods. He gets it, maybe. He understands part of it. “Drink your tea, Sirius,” he says quietly, and his friend, gazing at a drawer in consternation, does so without looking away. Resuming his earlier tack, Remus decides that talking about anything other than this house is his best course of action. “Tell me about when you saw Harry.”

Sirius is slower to return to the conversation this time, and when he does, his eyes still don’t leave that one drawer. “He, Ron, and Hermione came to see me outside Hogsmeade. Bloody mess, the whole situation. I didn’t know what to make of it. Crouch, and Bagman. Fucking Snape. Mad-Eye’s in the mix, which introduces some unpredictability.” Sirius’s mouth quirks upwards. “They brought me food, though, which is more than I can say for you.”

Remus laughs. “You know I’m rubbish at cooking.”

Sirius finally looks away from the drawer and gives Remus a disapproving look. “ _ Takeaway _ , Remus. Jesus.”

Remus almost decides to acquiesce, but he doesn’t think he should leave Sirius in this house alone. What’s in that drawer? No reason it couldn’t be knives. “Tomorrow. It’s nearly one in the morning.”

“The time does nothing to diminish my hunger.”

Remus remembers the note he gave himself earlier--feed Sirius something real--and relents. “Alright, but you’re coming with me.” He stands, and Sirius grins and does the same. “I wish we had a leash. No one will trust me looking the way I am, much less with an unleashed dog the size of a bear.”


	3. Chapter 3

When they return with Indian food, they know this time to hurry to the kitchen rather than peer around the rest of the house. Once again, Sirius shuts the door decisively. Remus scours the drawers and cabinets, looking for anything with which to eat, but Sirius has already dived in, sopping up curry with a piece of naan.

“Merlin,” he says with feeling. “Merlin and Jesus and  _ McCartney _ . I haven’t had good food in weeks. Months? Months.” 

Remus smiles and, giving up on his quest for proper dishware, joins Sirius at the table and grabs himself some naan as well. He takes a more measured approach to the meal, in part because, as someone who has not been starving for months, he knows that what they were able to find at this hour doesn’t exactly represent the best food London has to offer.

As long as Sirius is distracted, Remus lets himself observe more closely. Not just Sirius, but the room. A china cabinet, though almost opaque with dust, shows what must be heirlooms. Cauldrons that look older even than the Black family name. A dish set that seems to be spelled to clean itself, with little house elves now sitting idly along the edges. Remus feels his stomach twist a little. By the sink, a bar of soap and a dish rag sit, soaked. Soaked?

Uneasy, Remus glances again at Sirius, who seems to have no thought in his head but to consume an ungodly amount of food in as brief a time as possible. Just like it used to be. Remus wonders what it’s like to distract yourself, to be able to escape your head as Sirius has always done, whether through risk or drink or sheer will. 

Their tea cups, Remus’s long empty and Sirius’s long cold, are still on the table and Remus moves to clean them up. Sirius glances at them as they drift towards the sink, and pulls out his own wand. “Let me,” he says through a mouthful of food and, without looking, tries to spell everything clean.

Remus is taken by surprise, and had already begun to clean the kettle when Sirius’s faster, showier, sloppier spellwork interrupts. Somehow, both cups and the kettle end up crashing down into the sink, startling both men. Remus is about to check if anything is broken when a third voice interrupts. 

“ _ Traitor to my house--you dare come back now? With that filthy half-blood werewolf bastard, no less--scum--dirt, in the House of Black--” _

The screaming continues. After a moment of panic, Remus curses himself for not investigating the fresh tea earlier, or even the wet soap and dishrag a few minutes ago. He doesn’t know how, but he knows that’s Walburga Black’s voice. How could she be here? When he looks at his friend, the  _ how _ suddenly becomes less important, and concern overpowers every other feeling.

Sirius’s eyes initially flash panic, and he stands abruptly, knocking over his chair. His eyes flash pure, unhidden fear. Almost as suddenly as it appeared, though, it’s gone, and Sirius’s eyes are dead, his face blank and impassive. “Sirius?” Remus almost whispers. There’s no sign of recognition in the other man’s face. Wand out, Remus decides to go out on his own. He’ll be damned if that old hag tries to look Sirius in the eye.

Again he lights his wand, barely breathing the word, and steps out of the kitchen. The screaming isn’t hard to follow--“ _ Disgraceful, depraved boy! Betraying your lineage! _ ”--and so Remus approaches the front room, peering desperately to see Walburga. He assumes she’s sitting, but her voice is coming from higher up...and suddenly he sees it. He has to laugh, a little--a damn  _ portrait? _ But she can’t just keep screaming. He tries  _ silencio _ , and she only shouts louder. 

He looks about helplessly for a moment and then he sees the drape. It’s an uphill battle, but he eventually gets the portrait covered again--someone must have charmed this ugly velvet, because Walburga’s voice disappears.

He rushes back to the kitchen. Sirius hasn’t moved an inch and his face is as frighteningly empty as when Remus left.

“Sirius?” His voice is quiet as Remus tries not to betray any of his worry. He places a hand on Sirius’s arm. “It’s ok. She’s not here. It was just a portrait.”

Slowly, Sirius begins to blink, and finally repeats, “The portrait.”

“Yes. That’s all. I covered it back up.”

Again, he says, “The portrait,” this time his voice a little stronger. He suddenly looks Remus in the eye and shakes off his friend’s hand from where it still rests on his arm, and now Sirius begins to laugh.

Remus had thought, earlier, that he had forgotten how to identify Sirius’s laughs, but even without prior knowledge he would have known that this one is danger. It seems compulsive, and Sirius gasps for air as he leans over the table, face cracked wide open in a jagged grin. He begins to cough but keeps laughing. Remus tries again to place a gentle hand on Sirius’s shoulder. “Sirius.” It comes out pleading. “Padfoot.” He pushes Sirius a little so he’s sitting. “Padfoot, try to breathe. Please.”

He tries to follow Remus’s request, but doesn’t seem able to. At least he’s not laughing now, only taking in occasional gasps of breath. Remus’s nails make marks in the wooden table as he deepens his own breathing, willing Sirius to somehow take the air from his lungs. He wishes he could wrap Sirius up in his arms and hold him as tight as ever he did.

Eventually, it seems to work. Sirius glares down at his hands like they’re responsible for it all and mutters a furious apology and a begrudging thanks.

Remus shakes his head slowly. “Please. What else am I for?” He pauses, glances quickly at Sirius and just as quickly away. “I think we should try and sleep.” 

Sirius scoffs, but gently--can you scoff gently, Remus wonders? Or is there something else that diminishes his friend’s attempted derision? “Sleep here? Not bloody likely. You can go to sleep if you want.”

“You’re living here. You need to learn to sleep.” Seeing that his argument doesn’t move Sirius, Remus changes tack. “At least come upstairs with me. I’ll sleep better anyway, if I’m not alone in this ridiculous house.” Transparent, probably, but if it works…

Sirius makes a frustrated sound and then abruptly stands. “Okay. Fine.” With long strides he leaves the kitchen and walks towards the stairs like a man to the gallows. Remus again lights his wand, but Sirius doesn’t seem to need it as he takes the stairs two at a time. Remus worries that this was too much to ask, too quickly. For all his torturous habits of reflection, he still makes the wrong choices, has the worst possible ideas. 

He has to shake these thoughts from his head as Sirius stops abruptly in front of a door. “This one’s mine,” he says flatly, but makes no move to open it. Remus feels a knot: let Sirius stew in whatever he’s stewing in, or force him to blunder forward? As he wrestles with the question, Remus imagines he hears someone whispering or muttering, but decides it’s the house playing tricks on him. Finally,  putting an end to Remus’s indecision, Sirius turns the knob.

Remus had been to James’s childhood room--an incurable mess, pictures of his friends and his family everywhere, gifts and books accumulating on any surface--and Peter’s, too--much neater, much duller, a framed portrait of him and his parents and his Hogwarts letter serving as the only decor. Remus’s own room had been cramped, and so always a little messier than he’d liked, but with stacks and stacks of books everywhere. 

No one had seen Sirius’s room, of course--the idea of visiting Grimmauld Place would never have occurred to any of them. Even discussing it was questionable, usually. Now, untouched and just as it was when he left home, Sirius’s room makes Remus feel both very old and as though he’s a teenager again. It’s just so  _ Sirius _ , all of it--not the decor in itself so much as the intentional disrespect with which it’s put up. Everything about Sirius has always been about context. That grin on the face of someone with fewer voices in their head wouldn’t be half so frightening.

As Remus wanders into the room, he comes across a picture of the four of them from what must have been fourth or fifth year, judging by Peter’s atrocious haircut. Remus pauses and tries to find a smile for what he’d had, but he is so far removed from what comprised his happiness then. He looks away and spots a horrible poster of some girls on bikes and immediately cracks up.

Sirius gives him a reproving look. “Please respect the art, Remus.”

“You are absolutely ridiculous.”

“ _ Was, _ maybe. I wouldn’t put that one up again. But I can’t take it down, either. My own spell work is too good.” Remus thinks there’s almost a trace of a smile on Sirius’s face as he looks around his childhood bedroom, but it soon hardens. “Well, you can take the bed in here, but there are plenty of other rooms to explore if you want.” He flops himself down in an armchair and shuts his eyes.

“Sure,” Remus says softly. He watches his friend for a moment. “Here is fine.” It feels as though they’ve carved out space in this house, that the warm kitchen and Sirius’s bedroom are the only rooms that even exist. Everything else--hallways, entries, closed doors--is covered in some sort of fog made only for passing through. If Remus left this room--left Sirius in this room--he would be breaking some rule he’s barely aware of. 

Remus, feeling somewhat awkward, removes his shoes and slides onto the bed, which creaks in protest. At the noise, Sirius opens his eyes again and gives the room another searching look. He looks ready to say something but just shakes his head violently and transforms into the dog.

Unhealthy, Remus thinks. For another day, though. “Night, Padfoot.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading, commenting, leaving kudos! It makes me so glad that people are enjoying reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. One more chapter to go after this!

Remus wakes suddenly and completely to the chilling sound of tortured whining. He jumps out of bed and sees Padfoot, still asleep, twitching agitated legs. The sound of his friend’s dream is unbearable, as though the dog had been shot with something more lethal than memory.

“Padfoot,” he says, his voice sounding unnatural. He reaches out a cautious hand and shakes the dog a little. “Padfoot, wake up.” After a moment, the dog wakes up and immediately begins to howl, loud and wrenching. Remus feels tears in his eyes before he can even understand what’s happening. “Sirius, please,” he whispers, trying to soothe his friend. “Please, just transform. Let me  _ help _ .” The dog howls on. “ _ Please,  _ Sirius. Please.” He hates himself for the insufficiency of that word. He used to imagine that by filling his head with enough words, he would always be able to find the right ones, but he’s long since learned the error in that line of thought. He has no words for this. None except “Please, please, Sirius, please.”

Finally, Sirius does transform. Remus wonders what that means. Has he persuaded his friend, right now, to feel more than he wants? Is Sirius sick of running, or does he feel like Remus is something to run to?

Remus has no time to entertain these thoughts because Sirius Black is curled up in the corner of a couch, sobbing. Remus sits next to him, at a loss as to what to do. He reaches a hand out to stroke his friend’s hair and recalls suddenly one of their insomniatic nights at Hogwarts.

It was third year, back when Sirius was still James’s more than Remus’s and Remus didn’t mind. Once two had come and gone and neither was closer to sleep, they trudged down to the common room. Sirius sprawled himself on a couch and Remus slid down onto the floor, leaning his back against the couch. They were chatting about idle things until suddenly they weren’t. “Why don’t you like me?” Sirius asked without defensiveness. Mere curiosity.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Remus replied, bemused, as he twisted to look at Sirius. “Would I spend half my life sitting up with you far too late if I didn’t like you?”

Sirius hummed. “I know James likes me. I know Peter does.” He held steady eye contact with Remus. It was a searching look, but there was something hard behind it. “You don’t tell me things, real things. And you never touch me. It’s like you’re afraid of me.” Unsaid:  _ Maybe you should be. _

Remus remembers punching Sirius’s arm a little then. “There. Happy?”

“ _ Remus _ .” The boy laughed. “Why don’t you like me?”

Remus thinks, now, that that moment had decided everything else. “I  _ like _ you Sirius. For Christ’s sake, how insecure can you be? If I didn’t like you I wouldn’t be here. I have a choice, don’t I?” He rolled his eyes, perhaps he sighed. “Maybe I don’t trust you as much as you want me to. But I don’t think I trust  _ anyone _ . Not for me.” He paused. “But, I mean, I’ve already trusted you and James and Peter more than anyone in the bloody world, haven’t I?”

Sirius was silent for a moment. “I like that. ‘I have a choice, don’t I?’ That’s good.”

Now, in Sirius’s childhood room, Remus feels helpless. “It was a dream, you’re okay, you’re safe, it was a dream, you’re safe, safe, safe.” He whispers comfort in an endless stream, unsure whether Sirius can even hear it, but he keeps stroking his friend’s hair. 

Eventually, Sirius, still shaking but a little quieter now, shifts so that his head rests on Remus’s leg. “I’m so fucking tired,” he rasps. “I just want to sleep, Remus.” 

“Would you like to tell me about it? The dream?” Remus asks quietly.

“I can’t,” Sirius says, and starts to sob anew. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” The words seem compulsive.  _ What can I do, _ Remus wonders wildly. A tear trails down his face and falls onto Sirius’s, seeming to shock the other man into silence. Sirius sits up, moves closer to Remus. “Can we go outside?” His voice is so desperate. “On the roof.”

“Show me.” Remus stands, offers a hand to help Sirius up.

Sirius walks slowly to a window and opens it like it matters before crawling through it. Remus follows quickly-- _ unstable man, tall roof, no railing _ \--and grabs Sirius’s hand. He doesn’t need to worry; Sirius leans back and the roof practically absorbs him as he lies down. Remus follows his example, lying as close to the other man as possible. Assuring himself:  _ Sirius is still here. He is next to me. He is alive. _

They lie in silence for a long time. Remus’s mind is racing with things he should or could say but they all seem wrong, and so he stews in his inaction. Sirius finally speaks up, his voice slow and so quiet that if Remus were a few inches further away, he wouldn’t be able to hear. “When I was eight, he tried to curse Regulus for the first time. I tried to stop him. She threw me on the kitchen table. Because she was mad at him for hurting Regulus.” Another long silence as Remus’s stomach folds in on itself. “I don’t know how many Imperiuses she put on me, over the years. Short ones, to shut up. Longer ones, when family was coming.”

Remus can’t say anything to this. There’s nothing to say. He squeezes Sirius’s hand. 

Sirius continues. “I don’t know why it’s so much harder to say specifics. I used to tell anyone, anytime, about how I hated my family, how shit they were. But I...I don’t remember how much I ever told you. How much I told you that was real. I can’t remember.” He turns his head sideways to face Remus. “I’m sorry about that.”

Sorry? Remus looks at the stars. “You don’t need to apologize for that, Sirius.”

“No, stop. I do. I want to.” Remus turns so the two are face to face. He thinks about being sixteen and wanting, about being twenty and needing more than Sirius could give. About being twenty-four, twenty-eight, thirty-one, and regretting different things every day. And now, when Sirius closes the gap between them, Remus lets himself be kissed for a moment without listening to the swirl of thoughts in his head.

But only for a moment. He pulls back. “Sirius.” His voice is almost nothing and his eyes are shut. “No.”

Even without looking, Remus can feel Sirius tense. “Sorry. God. Sorry.”

“I just…” Remus swallows. He opens his eyes but turns to look at the sky rather than Sirius. He suddenly realizes their hands are still clasped; he doesn’t let go. “I can’t be this for you again. I won’t help you drown yourself out. Not now.”

A pause. A tense, uncertain one. “Remus, are you--you think that’s it? Merlin. Could you try to understand?” Sirius’s voice grows angry, devastated. “I just lost thirteen years. Over a third of my life. Gone. You may have grown and changed and had wonderful experiences but I’ve been fucking stuck. I remember the meal we made right before we heard about James and Lily. I remember cleaning our flat that day, I remember which books were on the nightstand. I’m still  _ there _ , and I still--I’m in love with you. Fucking idiot. I’m not using you to what, drown myself out? You were never that loud. Jesus. Is that what you think of me now?”

Remus says nothing. What can he say?  _ I’m in love with you.  _ Hearing it aloud, in Sirius’s voice, feels so much better even than reading it, and guiltily rereading it, in a letter.  _ Healthy coping mechanisms _ , screams a part of him.  _ Reciprocal, healthy relationships.  _ He doesn’t think that’s what this is, whatever exists between the two of them. But that doesn’t stop him from turning his head again to face Sirius. He lets go of his hand and places it on the other man’s cheek, hollowed out and sharp as a knife. 

Sirius’s eyes are unsure and weary. But as they ever did, they still hold an invitation that thrills and scares Remus. He answers it and leans forward. He just has time to muse that his warning was perhaps for himself:  _ don’t use Sirius to drown yourself out _ . But then, he doesn’t think of anything.


	5. Chapter 5

Nothing, Remus thinks as the time passes, could make him feel so much like a teenager again like this: lying on a roof with a hand in Sirius’s hair, watching the sunrise after having failed to sleep all night. 

“Your hair is filthy,” he murmurs, because it’s true and because he knows Sirius will laugh. He does.

“What did you expect? The luxury you were used to took a lot of upkeep.”

“I know. We shared a bathroom for ten years.” Sirius’s hair had been the first thing to drive Remus mad when he was sixteen, and he had found himself seized with something he would not yet call desire. It had been translated somehow into an intense urge to take a pair of kitchen scissor to his friend’s hair.

He’s tired enough now that, as soon as the memory comes to him, he tells Sirius. “I used to fantasize about cutting all of your hair off.” He knows he sounds spacey, but he doesn’t think Sirius will care, not now. “You would lean over your desk at school and I couldn’t think of anything but using a spell or a knife or something. Hack it off.”

Sirius laughs again. He takes hold of Remus’s hand and kisses his palm. “I always thought you liked my hair. If you had told fifteen-year-old me that Remus Lupin wanted it gone, I wouldn’t have thought twice. I was...hm. I was stupid for you.”

Remus  smiles, shuts his eyes. “Of course I liked your hair. Probably the only reason I ever fell for you. Just didn’t know it yet. Long-haired bastard, I used to think, imagines he’s a bloody rockstar. I wanted it gone. And then I realized I just wanted it. You.”

Sirius hums. “It drove them mad here.” Remus gut twists. He hadn’t meant to steer the conversation towards this. But he hadn’t, had he? This is all Sirius. And if Sirius wants to talk, Remus won’t stop him. The other man continues. “They  _ hated _ it. She would cut it short the first day of summer, every year, but I would spell it back. At first only once I was on the train back to school, but that last summer...every day. She got less and less careful with the spellwork, of course.” He falls silent, and Remus waits, but Sirius only says, once more, “She hated it.”

Remus looks for a particularly jagged scar he knows is there, at the nape of Sirius’s neck. Messy spellwork for Walburga Black, he thinks darkly, had probably been more careful rather than less. More careful to miss the hair entirely, perhaps. Pushing aside Sirius’s hair now, Remus finds the scar and kisses it.

He lets Sirius remain silent. Still overly tired--too tired to make sense, maybe--Remus starts talking again, the first memory that floats into his mind. “I remember a night, near the end of sixth year, when you stole Lily’s eyeliner. Do you remember? We couldn’t sleep, and she had left it in the common room, and you did my eyes, and then you let me do yours, much worse, I think. We smudged it all around. Do you remember?” Sirius nods, just barely. “I wanted to kiss you that night. For the first time I let myself think it, really think it.”

Sirius lets out a quiet laugh. “If you had jumped me then, Remus, I would have let you do anything.” He shakes his head. “I remember the eyeliner. I had just got  _ The Man Who Sold the World  _ on vinyl, remember? And you looked at it and said she was beautiful, and I told you it was just Bowie in drag, and you shrugged and blushed a little and said, even so. And I thought then, maybe… I liked how close I could get to you, putting on eyeliner. And I liked how it made me feel. A little like Bowie.”

Remus remembers that, too. Feeling very brave when he looked Sirius in the eye and tried to tell him without telling him that it didn’t matter if it was a man on that album. “I always liked when you wore eyeliner, later on.” Remus is playing with Sirius’s hair again. Really, it’s like there’s a magnetic force there. “Let’s buy some tomorrow.”

Sirius grins, his face as silly as Remus feels. “Okay, Moony. We’ll buy some eyeliner.”

“And tea. Bread. Real food.”

“Shampoo.”

“Definitely,” Remus agrees, perhaps too emphatically, judging by the reproachful look Sirius shoots him. “I’m sorry, Sirius, but it’s disgusting. You must know that.”

“And yet  you still can’t keep your hands off it,” Sirius smirks. God, Remus  _ missed _ that man’s smirk. 

“I’m weak, I suppose. Maybe you kept me up just so exhaustion would dull my judgment.”

Sirius’s eyebrows draw together slightly. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to wake you earlier, or keep you from sleeping… I’m sorry.” He clenches a fist. “I feel...I can’t stand being here. I don’t know what’s going on in my brain.”

These last words are familiar; it’s an exact phrasing Sirius always used to use, as though the one sentence played in his mind at all times. Remus used to hear the phrase and fear. Now, though, he has a better idea of what’s happening to his friend. Words like mania and trauma hold meaning for him, now. In a way it’s worse to understand the reality behind Sirius’s facade of generally  _ mad _ . To know that “mad” doesn’t mean much, but depression and post-traumatic stress do.

“We’ll figure it out,” Remus says softly. “I promise. It will be better than it has been. Better than it was.” He knows he can’t assure that, and Sirius does too, but it doesn’t matter right now. Despite the circumstances, Remus is  _ happy _ right now. Happy that he can touch Sirius and have it mean what he wants it to. He only hopes Sirius feels it too, the unexpected gift of this night. As though fate, after years of laughing at them both, deigned to give them just this one thing.

Remus sighs, too tired to feel either as content or as anxious as he thinks he should. “I do love you, Sirius. Still.” He probably wouldn’t say that if the night had been any shorter or any easier, but right now he can’t remember why he tries to hide things. Especially when Sirius responds by bringing his mouth to Remus’s, kissing him slowly and hungrily.

The sun has fully risen by now and looks once more like it does daily. Remus pulls away from Sirius, barely a centimeter. Even with the warmth of another’s body, the London night has made both men shiver, and Remus asks, “Can we go inside?” Sirius kisses his jawline in response, which Remus takes as assent. Carefully, he crawls back through the window, making sure Sirius follows him. 

“Come here,” Sirius yawns, grabbing Remus’s hand and walking him towards the bed. “I could almost fall asleep.”

“What a novel idea,” Remus says evenly. “Why don’t you try it sometime?” He merely smiles at Sirius’s dirty look. Remus crawls under an ancient quilt and gives the other man an expectant look.

Sirius starts to pace a little, though, an agitated expression crossing his face. “Remus, I’m so tired.”

“ _ Sleep _ .”

“I know, I want to, but I can’t. Not me. I don’t sleep.” Remus understands suddenly, and Sirius’s face, all anger and shame, make sense.

Remus wants to hold Sirius like he always used to, like he could possibly protect him from what lived in his head and in this house. Remus  _ wants _ that. He does not want a dog at the foot of the bed or curled up on the couch. 

So he reaches out and catches Sirius’s arm. “Try. For me.”

Remus thinks about those words,  _ for me _ , and every time Sirius used them on him, and every time they worked. He thinks about what they really mean, said like this.  _ For me but really for you. For you, disguised as for me. _ He stares Sirius down with as much honesty in his eyes as he can muster, as much hurt and hope and want as he can possibly show the other man, and finally Sirius acquiesces. 

They still fit together. Sirius is smaller than he used to be, all bone and hunger, and Remus can feel him shake at the prospect of sleep. So he begins to talk quietly, slowly, perhaps nonsensically about the years Sirius missed. He talks about things neither good nor bad, but the mundanity of bread, neighbors, parents, tea--the things of life. Sirius’s eyes close after a while, but Remus keeps talking. He keeps talking as he notices Sirius’s breath start to even out. He talks until he himself can barely keep his eyes open, and then he stops talking. 

As he drifts off, Remus gives himself permission to be provisionally happy. He is holding Sirius Black again. The early morning sun graces Sirius’s countenance with something more than magic, and Remus is falling asleep with the first man he ever loved in his arms again. And Sirius is somehow perfectly, peacefully asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, my friends!! This was really fun for me to write, and the first fic I've ever done. There are some things I think I'd change but overall I'm happy with how it turned out. I hope you've enjoyed spending a sleepless night with these two!


End file.
